Little Things Served On A Silver Platter
by TheKruemel
Summary: AU. He comes day after day and watches her. They never talk beside the usual talk between a waitress and a customer, but somehow he feels drawn to her.


**A random one-shot I came up with. Please enjoy :)**

**I do not own Darker Than BLACK**

* * *

He was watching, always watching. Watching his surroundings and the people around him, his eyes trained in a way that the smallest movement could attract his attention. It was a habit of his since he'd been a child, watching the stars with his little sister. He had always tried to spot shooting stars for his sister so she could make a wish. As he grew up he had studied stellar constellations and the changes in the night sky. What had started as mere childlike curiosity had become an instinct over the years, a habit he could not break even if he wanted to. Although sometimes it bordered on obsession it proved to be a very useful habit. It had saved his ass on more than one occasion and was always very helpful for his jobs. His observation skills and perception had also spared him some unwanted encounters and had overall helped him to develop a practical mind. He was effective no matter what he did, his jobs always smoothly done. The only downside was that he rarely relaxed, his eyes always moving or fixated on something. Often enough that 'something' was food or at least a cheap restaurant where he could sate his unique appetite. When he wasn't working or watching – or both – he was eating to satisfy the black hole residing inside of his stomach.

Recently he'd spent a lot of his eating time at a certain diner. He'd stumbled across that particular diner on his way to one of his many jobs. But even though the job was long since done he had stopped by again and again. It was pretty far from his apartment and he hadn't had any more business in the area. The food wasn't overly good either to justify the long way several times a week and there were plenty of other cheap restaurants he could eat his fill at without wasting so much time. So why, pray tell, would such a practically minded man go out of his way just to eat at a diner at the end of his world?

The answer, of course, was his watching habit. That very instinct that saved his and others lives at work. That very habit that paid his bills and kept him out of too much trouble had him rooted to one of the pink leather seats of a simple diner with a pile of pancakes in front of him. The interior was mostly covered in calm and friendly pastel colors. During one of his visits he had heard a little boy say that the diner looked like cotton candy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw other guests, some on tables like him and another few sitting at the counter. Some of them seemed to come here regularly –like he lately – and most of them were ordinary working people or students plus the occasional family with children. He didn't really care about the other guests though. What had really caught his attention, the reason why he made such a detour more than once a week was slowly emerging from the kitchen, a plate on each hand.

The petite waitress was wearing the uniform of the diner, a short sleeved light orange dress with a white apron over the skirt. The hems of the sleeves and the dress were pink, like the name tag on the right side of her chest and the ribbon she had tied her hair with. Her hair was something that had drawn his attention to her. It was a light grey, almost silver, but looked nothing like the thin hair of elder people. It didn't seem dyed either. Her hair looked soft and silky and the way the strands of her ponytail moved when she walked reminded him of feathers dancing in the wind, slowly drifting to the ground. The strange color of her hair complemented her light, almost pale skin that looked just as soft as the bangs falling over her forehead. She reminded him very much of porcelain doll, looking so fragile, so smooth and beautiful. Her face was framed by silver bangs, covering her forehead, partly covering her ears and brushing her creamy cheeks every so often when she moved around the restaurant. Serving the plates she had carried to one of the tables, her small hands retracted to her body, folding them in front of her lap as she bowed to the guests before moving to another table to pick up some dirty dishes. Her steps were small and her movements always seemed slow, without rush, without hurry. Even when the restaurant was full and the other waiters wore strained smiles and couldn't get a seconds break she never seemed rushed or stressed. Her face was always calm, always relaxed, it even looked bored at times with her often half lidded eyes. It hadn't taken him very long to figure out she was blind or at least not far from it. She never really looked at people, but she didn't seem overly shy or intimidated either. Her unusual magenta colored eyes were glassy as if mirroring a sky full of clouds. Despite her near blindness she knew her way around the diner. He could only assume that she had worked here for quite some time. She didn't even use her hands to feel where she was going. She just walked and knew exactly where to stop and where to turn. He wondered if her blindness was the reason for her slow movements. But as he kept on watching her he noticed that she really wasn't slow. She only looked slow. None of her customers ever complained about her and the food she served was always warm when it reached the table. He had experienced it first-hand.

Sometimes he had been worried how the small and fragile looking waitress could carry the mountain of plates he ordered. But the plates or trays never trembled in her slender hands and it never slowed her down. She also never seemed annoyed about the amount of work, unfriendly guests or children that were too loud and causing a ruckus. She never went to the counter to whisper to her colleagues behind the guests' backs. When interacting with the guests she talked as little as possible, her tone as calm as her face and as monotone as her glassy gaze, but always bowing politely. Her voice was much like the rest of her soft, delicate and quiet. She was a source of silence in the often busy restaurant. No matter how busy it was or how quick the other waiters were scrambling around the tables to serve all the guests she always did her work at her own pace. Her pace was always the same, even, constant. Although he rarely let himself get affected by the atmosphere it relaxed him to watch her.

It seemed to be his luck that she was always working whenever he showed up. She wasn't always attending his table, depending on the shift she had, but he could always watch her serve the other guests and moving through the restaurant, unaffected by everything and everyone around her. Her behavior, too, reminded him of a doll. A being that indeed existed in this world, but wasn't really a part of it.

As he kept on watching her he began to notice little changes. Maybe he only noticed those things because he watched her so intently, but it deepened his impression of her. What he learned about her through watching her work was like looking at a complex painting. At first there was only color, strange and fascinating, attracting his attention like the color of her hair. Then there were shapes, easy to detect like her small frame and fragile build. Under those obvious forms there was something that was still easy to see, but was special to that specific painting, unique, just like the strange color of her eyes and her blindness. Through that first look at the painting he could gather the general theme of the work. It was her calm demeanor that seemingly made her immune to any signs of stress. But on closer inspection there were hidden meanings, other colors and shapes he could depict between the brushes strokes.

She was indeed not as much as a doll as it had first seemed and not completely unaffected by her surroundings. Her reactions were small just like her body and her movements. She didn't frown, or laugh or talk back to anyone, but she did react. When children cried at the diner her head would slowly turn to that table. When a group of female students was talking about the latest episode of an anime she would pause a moment or two longer on one of the tables nearby she had to clear. When the door opened and a cat was heard from outside or one had sneaked its way into the kitchen and the cook was shouting and clattering with pots to cast the animal out the corners of her mouth would turn upward the slightest bit. When a customer became loud or angry her usually impassive eyes would become even foggier as if she was trying to tune it out. When on the late shift one of the guests had had too much beer and would try to stumble to the door, fumbling with his keys her small hand would extend to grab the customers shirt before he fell. No one seemed to notice these little things though. And after watching not only her, but her surroundings as well he began to wonder that maybe she didn't want others to see those things. It also made him wonder if she saw him watching her, if she was aware of his lingering gaze on her. He tried not looking at her that often or for that long, but he couldn't help his habit, couldn't help the target his eyes had set themselves on. A little voice inside his practical mind told him that he didn't care either way.

The only part about her that didn't seem to change as long as he watched her work was her quietness. She didn't talk more, not even after weeks of him coming by. He never initiated any small talk. It wasn't in him to talk about nothing just for the sake of talking. She didn't seem like a small talker either. So he ordered his fill and thanked her when she served him. She never commented on his frequent visits unlike the other female waiters that attended to him from time to time, but he didn't care, putting on the shy and clumsy front of a student that couldn't cook very well and came here for the cheap and tasty food. He didn't really care for their elated giggles or friendly smiles, not even remembering which of them had already served him despite his perception skills.

He never got tired of watching her. Sometimes he wished he did, but then his feet would just find the way to the diner by themselves and drag him along. He was brooding over why he was so adamant of watching that waitress. His want to watch _her_ seemed to excel his usual obsession to simply watch. He pondered why he was so obsessed to watch her and tried to deny that he was obsessed. Fascinated, maybe, but not obsessed. Certainly not obsessed. Sometimes he was so deep in thought, so into the image of her in his mind that he didn't notice that she had returned to his table with his order. At times he didn't even have to put up his front to act like a shy and clumsy student. Sometimes though when he was able to compose and not embarrass himself it seemed as if she was standing just a moment longer at his table after bowing to him. It seemed as if her blind eyes were looking at him, waiting for him. To look back, to say something, to do anything. But before he could even draw a breath or bat an eyelash she moved on to the next table to continue her work, her presence still lingering beside the bench he was sitting on.

Her scent was something he discovered very late into their… relationship of sorts. It was strange, he knew that, especially he knew that because he had seen and experienced all sorts of strange things. But he also couldn't deny that he felt at ease whenever he was at the restaurant and watching her. After another few weeks he was sure that it was not his imagination that she lingered at his table, that her hand sometimes lingered a moment too long on the dish when he reached to gently take the last of the dozen plates from her soft grasp. He knew, he_ saw_ that she didn't do this at other tables, with other guests, not even with patrons. And it made him feel a strange sensation, knowing that he was kind of special in her world. He had never cared about others' opinions and yet he cared about the impact he had on a waitress he didn't really know. It was irrational, it was bizarre, unlike anything he had ever experienced. The strangest part about it all was however that it didn't bother him. She didn't bother him and a small part of him was even grateful for her unintrusive attention. Because it had taken them so long to get somewhat closer physically he hadn't really noticed her scent. It fitted her in every way possible because it was light, discreet, inconspicuous and pleasant. It vaguely smelled of cherry blossoms and the ocean.

One day when he sat at one of the tables – he almost always occupied the same table, since it gave him the perfect view over the whole diner – he watched the waitress at another table across the room. The man on the seat was older than him, a foreigner by the looks of it with light brown hair and a friendly face. He watched him talk to her and watched her listen. Her face remained impassive, but she didn't seem upset about the guest talking to her. The man had never been there before, at least not at the same time as him, but maybe she knew him. When he saw her shake her head once, twice he squinted his eyes a little, watching her lips move.

It hit him then that he had never read what was written on her name tag, too captivated by her look, her movements and her presence. Maybe he had gasped or made a sound as it hit him because her pale magenta eyes searched the room and finally looked at him.

"Yin, it is Yin."

* * *

**I've been thinking too much about diners lately... inspiration is a strange thing.**

**Review if you please :)**


End file.
